


Service

by Mousieta



Category: Bleach
Genre: Blood, Blow Jobs, Darkfic, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 22:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousieta/pseuds/Mousieta
Summary: Trapped in the endless halls of Hueco Mundo, Ichigo desperately searches for Orihime, for a way to find save his friends, for the way back home. Unfortunately, he is captured by Aizen and forced to serve.





	Service

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings. This is darkfic. Don't like, don't read. 
> 
> That said, I have been obsessed with the visual of Aizen on his throne and have a thing for Ichigo being abused so here we are. I promise I have many more ideas for this fandom that *aren't* dark.

Ichigo has been running, alone, through the halls of the palace for what feels like an eternity. His senses are numb and time a meaningless abstraction. He can’t remember the last time he’d seen someone, or even who that would have been. 

Maybe Nel. 

Maybe not.

All the corridors look the same, feel the same. The spiritual pressure of is friends is still out there, he thinks. But maybe not. The knot of sensation at the back of his mind that he associates with them, with the resonance of their spiritual presence, is still there, but it could just be his imagination. It doesn’t feel real. Nothing here does.

Still running, he actually looks at the corridor around him. He’s been down this one before. Surely he has. He has to have. . 

He makes a turn that he’s already made a thousand times, and is suddenly no longer in a corridor. 

The room around him is large, cavernous, an echoing chasm pressing down upon him. In the far distance, almost too far away to see was a dias, rising up high over the room. He considered walking towards it then lifted his foot to take a step back. 

The world around him twisted, folded, wrenched his stomach around reality and he was on the dias, on his knees looking up at Aizen, smiling down at him lazily. 

"You!" He tries  to surge to his feet and freezes, ice cold metal slicing into the flesh of his shoulder. With a cry, he buckles back down onto his knees. 

"Yes," Aizen says languidly, almost as though yawning, "me. And you down where you belong, on your knees at my feet."

"Back off," he snaps and tries himself against the blade again, now merely pressed against the fabric of the robe at his shoulder. The blade doesn’t give, though, so he is forced to remain down.

He feels a trail of blood coursing down his chest under his clothes, only a small tack, mirrored by its match along his back. Desperate, his mind searches for a way out, his spiritual pressure lashing out wildly.

"I’d reign it in if i were you," Aizen says. Above his shoulder, the air shimmers, as though a mirage snapping into sharp focus. 

Orihime, in a long white dress, sits on an over-sized couch, and standing beside it, Ulquiorra. Aizen’s threat is obvious. Ichigo is not the only one at stake. 

Unable to control the venom in his voice he growls out, "What do you want from me?"

"Why," Aizen says, lips curving in a sinister smile, "your services of course."

"I’ll never swear myself to you!" 

With a jerk of his chin he spits, spittle landing on Aizen’s sleeve. The pain is instant and searing, the knife slicing into him again

"Now that was rude." As if threats and slicing weren’t rude. Ichigo glares at him, incredulous. “And," Aizen continues, "that is not the kind of service i meant"

With a flick of his wrist, the flat of the blade presses against Ichigos cheek. He glares fire up at Aizen but his head moves as it’s pushed down to the soiled sleeve. "Now be good and clean up your mess." Aizen’s voice is patient, condescending. Ichigo hates it.

The blade pushes him until his nose presses up against the soft fabric of Aizen’s sleeve.  _ Surely he doesn’t want me to -  _ Ichigo’s mind breaks off, unable to even finish the thought. 

“Go on,” Aizen says, like he’s coaching a reluctant puppy. “Clean up after yourself.”

“How do you want me to do that?” Ichigo says, always rebellious.

“You’re a smart boy, I’m sure you can figure something out.”

Disgusted, he does. He just doesn’t want to do it.. 

“Orihime,” Ulquiorra’s voice echoes around them, sounding tinny, far away but clear, he and Orihime still on display above them. “Come here and look at this.”

Closing his eyes and trying not to gag in disgust, he sticks out his tongue to lap at Aizen’s sleeve. He chokes back a hacking cough, licking away..

“There now, was that so hard?” The blade disappears for an instant and soft fingers stroke through his hair. Ichigo’s stomach roils and churns. 

“Now -” Aizen drops his hand, casually, onto Ichigo’s shoulder, the blade of the dagger grazing against the nape of his neck, just shy of hard enough to nick. “Where were we before your rude display? Oh, yes, your service.”

Aizen, already leaning back in his chair, goes a bit looser, a bit limper, relaxing into the seat of his power. “I do not want loyalty. That, from you, is worthless to me. As you were so cleverly able to discover how to clean up just now, I’m sure you can similarly ascertain in what way I want you to serve.”

Ichigo feels his eyes go wide and he gapes up at Aizen. Only inches from his chest, Aizen’s legs shift, spread, thighs parting and Aizen’s robe slipping aside. 

“I’ll never!” But already he can feel the fire in him dying, dwindling in the face of fear and panic. Over himself, over Orihime, over the rest of his friends, trapped somewhere out there - foolishly having followed him to this place of nightmares. 

The blade at his nape shifts and it presses against his spine. Another trickle of blood courses down his back. The blade doesn’t cut deep, doesn’t push, or force. But it doesn’t relent either. 

The high buzz of Orihime’s voice comes to him, just barely perceptible. He can’t make out words, only the familiar lilt of her speech. 

Obedient, he moves to bring up his hands, get this done as soon as possible. 

“No, no hands.” Aizen’s voice is a whip of command. 

Face flushed with anger and humiliation, he bends forward, teeth fastening over the loose fabric of Aizen’s robe. With a jerk of his head, he pulls it away, parting it up to Aizen’s chest. The folds of the rest of his clothes are awkward but not unfamiliar. With only his teeth, it takes an eternity with Aizen calmly staring at him, but eventually he is fully exposed. 

Ichigo stares down at Aizen’s lap, his cock long but limp, laying across his thigh. 

Confused, he looks up and actually meets Aizen’s eyes. “You?”

“Like I said -” Aizen returns his gaze levelly, still smiling, “you’re going to have to serve.”

Cursing Aizen and every one of his ancestors, Ichigo bends himself over Aizen’s lap, using his lips to take the soft cock into his mouth. 

He’s done this before, a fumbled rush of over-heated over-excited lust in the boy’s locker room at school. He barely remembers how every thing had happened but the experience is enough. 

With his lips he seals his mouth around the shaft of Aizen’s cock, and gives a long, slow suck, tongue slipping in circles around the head. It is pliant and soft but not for long. Aizen gives a small grunt and his thighs part further, the knife pushing Ichigo closer, deeper around him. 

There is a long, slow his from Aizen as his cock throbs against Ichigo’s lips, each pulse thickening it, hardening it until its head rubs against the top of Ichigo’s mouth. 

“Good job,” Aizen croons, and the knife scrapes softly against his neck. A pet. 

Tears of humiliation leak from Ichigo’s eyes. He loosens his jaw and pulls his teeth wide, curling his lips under them. In his fury, he bites against them hard enough to bleed, but they keep the pressure from Aizen’s cock. 

The taste of his own blood is metallic, joining the thicker, muskier flavor of Aizen’s cock. 

Ichigo wants to gag. He wants to die. 

His eyes can’t close any further but he screws them up tighter until red spots appear behind his eyelids, his own blood pulsing in his ears. 

He bobs and sucks, tongue laving up and down Aizen’s shaft, his lips sealed tight. 

There is a prick at his shoulder, the knife nicking him and Aizen thrusts up, pushing painfully into his throat. “No holding back, Ichigo.” His voice is soft. A lover’s voice. Vileness creeps in underneath Ichigo’s skin and burrows itself deep. 

Compliant, he completely loosen’s his jaw, taking Aizen in down to his base with every sucking bob. 

“Faster,” Aizen commands and Ichigo goes faster. 

“Suck,” he says and again, Ichigo obeys. 

Aizen’s breathing grows erratic, coming in short, gasped bursts but the hand pressed against him never relaxes. He begins to give little thrusts in time to Ichigo’s mouth, scraping against his raw, abraded throat again and again. 

But Ichigo can’t feel it. All his focus was on the piercing sting of the cuts on his shoulder, on his neck; on the hot blood - his own blood - coursing down his torso, gliding down his throat. 

Aizen gives a stuttered gasp and jerks up. Ichigo’s mind explodes, nerves alight with agony and everything goes white. 

As he blinks, his sight returns. He can taste the bitter savor or Aizen’s come on his tongue, cloying at his throat, staining his lips. There knife is embedded, point down, through the meaty flesh of his shoulder. 

Aizen looks down at him, satisfied smirk and cold eyes. With a wrenching jerk he pulls out the knife, and his other hand grips Ichigo’s whole shoulder hard, holding him in place. He presses the blade against Ichigo’s lower lip, mingling his blood and Aizen’s come, nicking at the tender, bruised flesh. 

Ichigo hisses but refuses to cry out in pain, pushing it down, far down and away so he can look up at Aizen with hatred and defiance. 

“You got what you want,” he spits out, “now let me go. Let  _ her _ go.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that.” 

Before Ichigo can protest, can rise up and strangle Aizen, knife to his neck, or not, the world around him shifts sickeningly. He is back - back in the corridor. Looking around, in confusion, his eyes refusing to focus on the walls. 

They shimmer, they shift, the goes went dark and in a panic he jerks around. 

“Ow,” he says as pain shoots through his hip. It’s still dark but after a second his eyes focus, adjusting to the low light. He’s in his room, tangled in his bed sheets and laying on the ground. 

“What?!” he jerks around again. Yes, he’s in his bedroom. Alone. 

Hands going to his shoulders, to his neck, he feels for wounds, for injury. There is nothing but smooth, unharmed skin. He drags his hands under his shirt, feeling along his torso for blood, but there’s none. Only sweat and the thrum of his racing heart. 

_ A nightmare _ . Only that. A nightmare. Crawling, he returns to bed, trying to calm his heart, still surging, pushing adrenaline through his veins. “Just a nightmare,” he says into the darkness. Just that. A promise.

Not a memory. 

Not that.


End file.
